Rosalinda's Eyes Ch. 01

"Just what kind of sick pedophile are you," this Hell-bitch from the Dark Side started screaming, "to entice little girls with promises of flying lessons!?"

I, of course, did exactly what you'd have done in similar circumstances. I slammed the door in her face.

And I watched her tromp off across my yard -- and straight into Tom and Doris Parker's house. More screaming, then Tom Parker reading this peri-menopausal Whore-bitch from Hell the riot act. Ten minutes later Judd's car screeches to a halt out front and HE tromps straight into his parent's house. Then more screaming, and I mean real hispanic testicle piercing screams, then the She-devil is stomping down the middle of the street and I swear I could see smoke and sparks and flames erupting under each step, then Judd was in a low crouch, sneaking over while trying not to let this flaming female Tasmanian she-devil see him dashing between our houses.

Ten minutes later I saw three totally cowed women marching right up the middle of the street again, this time right up to my front door.

Polite knocking -- while Judd ran to a back bedroom, trying to find a place to hide.

I opened the door, gave her my best, most polite "Yes?" as I stood there, my door cracked open not quite an inch.

"Oh, si, my girls did not tell me so much about you, Mister..."

"It's Captain."

"What?"

"My name. Don't call me Mister. It's Captain. I flew 747s for 24 years. Y no me gusta ser llamado pedófilo en mi propia casa!"

A strong offense is, in my book, always the best defense.

"You speak Spanish?"

"Of course. And French. And German. And Italian," I added, just for good measure, because I can ask where the bathroom is when I'm in Rome. I mean, can't everyone? Dov'è il bagno, nes pas?

She was wide-eyed by that point, sputtering and apoplectic. I was enjoying myself, too.

"I must apologize..." she resumed.

The point I need to make here is you need to know when you've won, when it's time to just sit back and shut up, listen for a while and to not press the point home any further than necessary.

"No apologies necessary," I said magnanimously. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"May we come in?" she asked.

I wanted to say something erudite, something learned, something like "promise you won't cut my balls off -- with a soup spoon?"

But no, not me. I said something that sounded an awful lot like: "Of course."

And then I laid out the deal. I showed her all my licenses, pictures of the Skyhawk. What I had offered Becky. What I was willing to offer her daughter in exchange for some work around the house.

"The girls mentioned painting? What are these lessons worth?"

"Around here, about ten grand."

"Then that is not a fair deal. For you."

"Okay. What's fair?"

"They clean your house, three afternoons a week."

"That's not the deal I made with Becky."

"For my daughter, then. Bettina?"

"Si, mama. I agree."

"Then I do too," Becky added.

"Fine," I said, now looking this woman in the eye. "And I want one more thing."

"And that is?" she said, returning my look with icy reserves of calm now. She was in her element now...combat had been joined.

"You prepare Sunday lunch here, at my house, once a month, for a year."

Her lips began to quiver, her eyes to twitch. I had her, and she knew it, then she turned to her daughter. "And? What have you to say to this?"

"Mama...please?"

She turned back to me, utterly defeated, and said: "I agree."

I didn't know this at the time, but there's no way you can win a battle of this type with a Mexican woman, let alone a peri-menopausal Whore-bitch from Hell Mexican woman. I might have known the simple truth of the matter if I'd had a clearer view of her face just then, of the sly, murderous grin that crossed her face, but I missed that.

At any rate, I've left off something in this retelling of events. Something vital. You see, once the steam stopped pouring out of this woman's eyes and ears she was really quite lovely to look at. Think Penelope Cruz, with streaks of gray in her hair -- and very, very short. Like five feet and nothing.

Anyway, the prospect of a home made Mexican dinner four times a month was suddenly more than interesting, and as they were about to leave I felt I'd made the best out of a sorry situation. I'd come out ahead, even.

"Oh? What's your name?" she asked.

"Just call me Captain Tom. And yours?"

"Rosalinda," she said as she walked out my door.

And I smiled. Billy Joel songs danced through my mind's eye just then, but...

One other thing I ought to cue you in on. PJ -- and Judd.

Once upon a time, back at the height of PJs high school slut period, the first boy to get her pregnant was? Yes, you guessed right: Judd Parker. The girl Judd swore to love until his dying breath? Uh-huh. She's the one. How about this one: the number of months since Judd's divorce had been finalized? If you guessed three...close enough.

When I went back to my parent's bedroom there they were, sitting on the floor holding hands.

Need I say more?

And so, here ends the first of a billions chapters, or perhaps one more. Who knows?

*

© 2017 Adrian Leverkühn | abw | nothing but smoke and mirrors here folks, move along, move along.